A Cacophony of Sound and High Emotions
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock's experiment goes bizarrely wrong, causing him to switch bodies with John. They each have to find a way to cope with the other's peculiarities. To say that it's not easy is, well, an understatement. I've had to change the pairing to eventual johnlock. I'm sorry if that's a problem for you.
1. Chapter 1

It all started with an experiment, of course. Sherlock had an unwieldy amount of equipment set up on the kitchen table and across the floor, including a small power generator and various gadgets unidentified.

Everything was going quite well until John entered to put on the kettle. There was less room to manoeuvre than normal so it shouldn't have come as a shock when he crashed into Sherlock and they sprawled across the table, John on top. But it did. A literal shock.

Luckily, Sherlock had actually built a safety into the electrical system, likely due to the last mishap. When the current ceased its flow through their bodies, John tried to push himself to standing but was hampered by the weight atop him.

Wait. Didn't I fall on top of Sherlock?

The weight lifted from his back and he stood his full height. He was viewing the world from a slightly different angle. Worse, he turned and looked down at himself.

John's mind raced. Raced!

Experiment. The kitchen needs cleaned. Accident. Is London always this noisy? Switched. The colours are so bright. Fuck. Hungry. Does the man never eat?

John clasped his head, Sherlock's head, in both of his hands and squeezed in an effort to slow his thoughts. "Stop. Stop. Stop!" He sounded just like Sherlock when he commanded silence at a crime scene, only more desperate.

Across from him, Sherlock stood, stunned. His mind felt sluggish as he tried to process the events that had just transpired. He blinked slowly as he peered at himself. What? He looked down and saw John's body. Piecing together the facts was painfully difficult but he eventually figured it out. John knocked us into the experiment and somehow we switched bodies.

Sherlock noticed John's distress. "John? What's wrong?"

A shaky baritone responded. "Too much! In my head. Thoughts swirling." John squeezed his eyes shut. "How can you stand this?"

Sherlock looked at John and after a moment understood. "Oh, John." His voice was full of understanding and sadness. "I couldn't always. Remember, the cocaine?" He knew that he wasn't being very helpful but he couldn't think. There was a strange tightness in his chest just knowing what his friend was going through. "Concentrate, John. Tell me about... the bones in the human hand." John didn't seem to hear him so Sherlock repeated the command.

Finally, Sherlock's words penetrated the mental cacophony that was raging within his head. John tried to block everything else out and concentrate, he was partially successful but the basic knowledge that he was trying to call up escaped him. It felt like he had taken a bad step and fallen flat on his face. Instantly, John was overwhelmed once again by a riot of sensory input and the accompanying thoughts that raced wildly in his head.

"Can't think properly," the doctor gasped out. His hands were now pulling at the curly hair beneath his fingers and his face was twisted in distress.

Sherlock felt a large lump form in his throat. It physically hurt to see John in such distress. He simply had to find a way to help his friend. The detective tried to remember the tricks that he had used in the past to calm his overwrought mind but the information was beyond his recall. He had tucked it away in his Mind Palace and, try as he might, that structure was beyond his reach. With that realization, a thought clicked into place. His Mind Palace was lost to him and John's medical knowledge might very well be lost to the doctor. They were going to make a fine pair.

Tears threatened to overcome the detective as he realized there was no hope of reproducing the circumstances that had resulted in the switching of their bodies. It was the pitiful mewling from John that pulled him out of himself and into action.

Sherlock decided to do for John what John would have done for him. He couldn't do much about John's racing thoughts, but he could help curb the influx of sensory information. On the occasions that gave in to his bodies needs and slept, he often employed ear plugs to filter out the sounds of London. With a pang of regret, he left John to his own devices to retrieve the ear plugs from his room. On the way, he remembered that the doctor used a menthol rub when the man became congested. Sherlock thought that that might work to inhibit his olfactory senses so he made the diversion to the loo to retrieve that as well. Fleetingly, the thought occurred to him that simple knowledge had made the transfer along with personality so at least they weren't relegated to the state of infants.

When he had returned to the kitchen, John seemed to be in an even worse state. The other man had collapsed onto the floor and was rocking wildly while pulling at his hair.

Sherlock reached tentatively to touch John on the shoulder. "John, I need you to do what I say." The doctor looked up at him through bewildered silver eyes. The confusion that Sherlock saw there made his heart ache in a way in which he was not accustomed. He fought through the onslaught of sentiment and spoke again. "Take my hand and come with me." He held out his hand, waiting for John to take it.

After a moment's hesitation, John did as Sherlock had instructed. He followed Sherlock's lead. When the detective pressed down on his shoulders, John almost flinched away but allowed himself to be seated in his customary chair.

Talking in a soothing tone of voice, Sherlock explained what he was going to do. "There's too much data coming in for you to process. I'm going to help you block some of it out. Just let me work and try to empty your mind. I know it's almost impossible, but try." John nodded dazedly and Sherlock took that as his cue to begin.

With exaggerated care, Sherlock put the earplugs in place. Next, he swept a line of the menthol rub above John's upper lip. After a moment's though, the detective retrieved his scarf and tied it gently around the doctor's eyes. Slowly, John began to calm, but not enough. Sherlock was growing frustrated with himself. His friend was still in distress and he hadn't been able to solve the problem completely. What else, he wondered, was there for him to do?

Sherlock had a moment's insight. When he was at his worst, he often perched on his chair, knees to chest, and rocked to soothe himself. Perhaps that would help. His voice would be muted by the earplugs, but that was fine, John would still be able to hear hm. "This may feel strange, but I need you to pull your legs up to your chest. Like I always sit. Can you do that John?" His question was answered by a low whine. Sherlock decided to help physically, he bent and took John's feet in hand and started lifting them. When he did, John moved into action and curled into the vulture-like for that Sherlock so often took. "Wrap your arms around your knees." John complied. Almost immediately, he began rocking again.

Standing, Sherlock found himself wiping away tears from his eyes. He moved around to the back of the chair, facing the kitchen so that John couldn't see the emotional state that he was in, not that John was in any state to notice anything at the moment.

The low keening sound that started coming from John caused Sherlock to turn instantly back to face the other man. Without realising what he was doing, the detective started carding his hands through John's hair. Slowly, the doctor's rocking ceased and he leaned into Sherlock's ministrations. It appeared to the detective that a moment's respite had been achieved. For that much, he was grateful. What was to come was beyond his ability to ponder.


	2. Chapter 2

John was finding it hard to focus on any one thing. His thoughts were racing in a myriad of directions. At least the overwhelming bombardment of his senses had quietened somewhat. Slowly, he became aware of the hands carding through his hair. He knew that had to be Sherlock.

John called the detective's name. Sherlock's heart leapt at the sound. It was the first word his friend had spoken that was free of panic. "I'm here John."

The detective's words were muffled by the earplugs so John removed them, flinching at the renewed onslaught of sound. "Bloody hell! Is this what it's always like for you?" His words were strained.

Sherlock smiled grimly, John was still John.

If the doctor was going to be trapped in Sherlock's head for any period of time, then this was the time for honesty. The detective spoke softly in deference to his friend's heightened state of sensory sensitivity. "John, I'm sure that you've speculated on my psychological status many times. Considering the current circumstances, you need to know my diagnoses."

John was listening intently.

"As I'm sure you know, I'm not a sociopath. I have Asperger's and Sensory Processing Disorder." He paused to allow his friend to process the information. "I don't know how you will be affected by the Asperger's, but obviously the SPD is having a heavy influence."

Asperger's John remembered, at least enough to be getting on with, but SPD was only a vague memory in the doctor's mind. He was sure that he should know something about it but there was simply no knowledge available. "I just can't remember, Sherlock. What is SPD?"

An unfamiliar sense of panic welled up within the detective. He wasn't supposed to feel this way! "It's a disorder in which symptoms are not processed normally. In my case, I am over-responsive. That's why I'm not very tactile. It's also the reason for my eating and sleeping habits. Not to mention my bouts of pacing and restlessness." Sherlock's tone turned reminiscent. "When I was younger, I was overwhelmed by sounds, lights, smells, even tastes." Damn these tears! "I'm so sorry you have to experience this John." The last words came out as a sob.

John considered, his mind racing. "How the bloody hell can you remember all of that but you can't remember anything about your experiment?"

The detective thought that was an unusually astute question, one to which he didn't have the answer. "I have no idea. It doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps it does." The doctor's mind was making connections, his mind leaping from thought to thought. "Asperger's and SPD are things that you had to contend with as a child so they are integral to who you are and you remember the details."

Sherlock began to protest, he was so much more than a diagnosis.

"I don't mean that you are defined by them. No one is a syndrome or a disorder. I just mean that they were a major part of your life." John sighed. "I just wish that I had your skills in handling everything. This is all… too much." He began rocking where he was perched. "What do we do now? How do we switch back?"

Sherlock pulled at his sandy blond hair in frustration. "I don't know! I remember the fundamentals of the experiment, but not the details. I don't see any way of replicating the circumstances of the exchange." An irrational hope bloomed in his chest. "Unless… John, do you think you can access my Mind Palace. I dismissed the idea earlier, but if you can, then we could replicate the experiment."

Even with his eyes covered by the scarf, his friend looked dubious. "I don't have any idea how to begin..."

Sherlock interrupted him. "Just close your eyes and picture the flat."

"The flat? I thought it was a palace." There was a distinct sense of mirth in John's words, the first since this ordeal had begun.

"The experiment took place here in the flat so the flat it is. Do keep up." Even Sherlock sounded more like himself.

The doctor pictured the flat in every detail. It was surprisingly easy. "Okay, I see it. I'm in the flat. Now what?"

Sherlock began to get excited. This just might work. "Go into the kitchen and described the experiment on the table, in every detail."

"There's nothing on the table."

"Look again," Sherlock ordered.

John shook his head of dark curls insistently. "I tell you, there's nothing on the bloody table! It's empty."

The detective's heart sank. It was useless. His Mind Palace was cut off from them.

Hesitantly, John made a suggestion. "What about Mycroft? Maybe his resources could help."

"You mean Baskerville." Sherlock laughed, he sounded near hysteria. "I don't trust them, John. They've probably been trying to achieve something like this for years. What if they don't let us go?"

"With your brother behind us, they wouldn't dare try to keep us prisoner." John's voice grew grim. "Besides, what makes you think they could hold us? We may be a bit mixed up, but I would hate to see them try."

Sherlock laughed morbidly, but he laughed. "All right. We'll call him. Mycroft will simply love this."

"I'm sure he will."

Moving to retrieve his phone, Sherlock pondered what he would say to his brother. How did one explain a situation like this? He clicked the fast dial and held his breath as the phone on the other end of the line began to ring.

"Sherlock." Mycroft sounded typically cool.

"Brother mine, John and I seem to be in a bit of a fix. We need your assistance." There, Sherlock had just spit it out.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded puzzled. "John, what's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sophomoric joke. Put Sherlock on the line please."

The detective closed his eyes. Of course, Mycroft thought he was John. Damn this slower mind. He shouted in frustration. "Myc, it's me, Sherlock. You see, that is the crux of the problem. It seems that John and I have switched bodies."

Now there was complete silence on the line. After several long moments, Mycroft spoke. "Alright, please put John on the phone."

Sherlock growled and handed the phone to John.

"Hello Mycroft, it's John."

"Really, Sherlock I would ask if you were high but I know the good doctor wouldn't be so what is the point of this joke." The man sounded very exasperated.

"It's not a joke Mycroft. Sherlock was performing an experiment and I stumbled into the midst of it, somehow that caused the switch." John felt annoyed at the other man's obtuseness-for once. "We need your help. Sherlock can't remember the details of the experiment so we're stuck like this."

The line was silent again.

"Please Mycroft. Ask Sherlock questions that only he could answer, but make them questions from his childhood. Those seem to have transferred along with his personality. Nothing in his Mind Palace made the transfer." John waited for a response that was not forthcoming. "Come to the flat. See for yourself. Bloody hell! We need help."

Mycroft digested what he was being told. He didn't believe a word of it, of course, but something was happening and he would get to the bottom of it. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft didn't bother knocking, he rarely did. Instead, he stepped into 221B determined to find out what mischief Sherlock had instigated and why the ever practical Doctor Watson was playing along with it. He wasn't prepared for the sight that met his eyes.

'Sherlock' was perched in John's chair with his scarf wrapped around his eyes. 'John' was mirroring the vulture like position in Sherlock's chair. There was a heaviness in the air, a sense of urgency. Obviously, the two men were not pulling some twisted joke, but what was truly happening was a mystery.

'Sherlock' turned his head blindly in Mycroft's direction, but it was 'John' who sprang to his feet and began speaking. "I'm so glad you could break away from the office, brother dear."

Mycroft scowled as his mind raced to explain 'John's' inexplicable behaviour. He kept returning to drugs as the obvious cause for this madness, but it would have to be some sort of experimental drug combined with mental suggestion perhaps. "Listen carefully," he began, "despite whatever delusions you are operating under, you are not my brother. You are Doctor Watson. I need you to focus and try to remember who you really are." 'John' wheeled on the spot then strode a few paces away.

Shaking his head, Mycroft walked across the room to stand in front of 'Sherlock'. He reached out a hand and removed the scarf that covered 'Sherlock's' eyes. 'Sherlock' flinched from his touch and didn't meet his eyes. "Come, now, Sherlock. You're better than this, look me in the eyes."

The next thing Mycroft knew, 'John's' strong hand had latched onto his arm and whirled him around. He was backed up abruptly against the mantelpiece. "Don't. You. Dare! Mycroft. All of you bullied me into looking into your eyes like a 'normal' child. Well, it didn't work, did it? I make people uncomfortable when I look at them. It's part of why they call me a freak. They say I stare them down, that don't blink, that it's creepy. Well, it's the only way I can keep eye contact and you are not going to do that to him!"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. There was absolutely no way that Sherlock would have told John about that. This was getting increasingly disturbing. "That's an interesting... memory that you've recalled. Just what else do you 'remember' from your childhood?"

'John's' eyes were full of a fire that Mycroft had never seen there before. It was almost enough to make him afraid.

"I remember being hauled from one specialist to the next. It started when I was 3 1/2. Everyone wanted to 'fix' me." 'John's' voice rose. "Well, I didn't need to be fixed! The idiot that put me on medication for ADHD was the worst. I hated the way the drugs made me feel. I know now that I was given too high a dose, but all I knew then was that they made me cry and feel horrible. A competent psychiatrist would have recognised that fact. I had meltdowns in public. That's why I was schooled at home. It was already hard for me to identify with others. That made things even worse! All of..." He broke off at an anguished cry from 'Sherlock'.

It was 'Sherlock' who had made the sound and was now striking his fists against the sides of his head.

Mycroft broke free of 'John's' grip and restrained 'Sherlock' by the wrists.

'John' ran to 'Sherlock's' room and returned with a weighted blanket. He urged 'Sherlock' onto his side, wrapped it around him and the 'detective' quieted.

* * *

Every possibility ran through Mycroft's mind. His brother's maxim came unbidden, "When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." They had really switched bodies and it was playing merry hell with them. Sherlock was having to deal with emotions that he was feeling in a different way than he ever had before. John was having to deal with ADHD, Asperger's and SPD.

Mycroft looked over at the two men. Sherlock was now the blond and John was now the brunette. Mycroft had better make that mental adjustment now. Sherlock had asked for his help, but all that he had to offer were the scientific facilities at Baskerville and that was out of the question. They had wanted to get their hands on his brother for years. It was a miracle that Sherlock had escaped their clutches during the Hound of the Baskerville case as John had so quaintly named it. Add this quite interesting phenomenon to Sherlock's already enticing traits and they would never let him go once they had him. Correction, had them. John would be just as much a captive now, if not the more valued of the two specimens. Mycroft shuddered.

Sherlock hovered over John, careful to give him enough space and mindful not to touch him uninvited. It was odd to see him in such a caring role. It was just as odd seeing John in need of it.

Walking to stand next to his brother, Mycroft spoke with forced calm, "It appears that I was mistaken in my understanding of the situation."

Sherlock shot him a venomous glare. "Obviously," Sherlock spat. It galled him to ask, but Mycroft had virtually unlimited resources at hand. Besides, Sherlock wasn't asking for himself, but for John. "Can you help, Mycroft?"

Lips pressed together until they were white, Mycroft shook his head in the negative. He couldn't explain why. Sherlock already more than half believed himself to be a freak. Learning that the scientists of Baskerville wanted to study him would only further that belief.

Sherlock's anger burned hot rather than cold as he was used to. He grabbed Mycroft by both arms and walked him backwards across the living room and pressed him against the door to the flat. "Mycroft," Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth, "I think it best if you leave. Now. I find that I very much want to pummel you senseless." Sherlock breathed heavily. "I just might regret that later."

With uncharacteristically shaking hands, Mycroft reached and opened the door. He moved out onto the landing and took the first three steps before turning back around cautiously. "Sherlock, please don't do anything rash. Give it a few days. Let things settle. I'm sure that you can figure this out." Sherlock took a single, menacing step toward Mycroft. The British Government wisely retreated.


	4. Chapter 4

John buried his face in his chair, only his dark curls could be seen. He just wanted Mycroft to leave. It didn't matter that he had been the one to suggest contacting him in the first place. There was simply too much of everything going on around him and he needed it to stop. He heard Mycroft leave, then the door to the flat shut gently behind him. It felt as if the air itself had grown lighter and was easier to breathe. Without looking, John knew that Sherlock had come over and sat on the floor in front of him. His presence, there, but not touching, was immeasurably soothing.

"Are you feeling better?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I don't know."

"It's okay, you don't have to know." Sherlock hesitated. What would John do? "I'll make tea."

Dark curls bobbed as John nodded an acknowledgement. He let himself surrender to darkness. On a whim, he rebuilt the flat around himself. He was able to recreate every detail, from the skull on the mantle to the medical journals stacked by his chair. He wandered the flat in his mind, going up to his room. There he found his medical kit. He picked it up and placed it on his bed. When he opened it, information poured forth - medical terms and procedures - all of it information he had lost. It didn't make sense. How could all this knowledge be here? He hadn't learned it in this body, with this mind. He most definitely hadn't stored it away using the method of loci, but here it was. His mind whirred. Taking a closer look at the information, he realised it was very limited in scope. All of it pertained to events that had happened in Sherlock's presence and it was all from the detective's point of view. Still, John was able to grasp at each memory and let it settle in his mind. It felt right, somehow, and seemed to connect with something deep inside him. He was certain he could perform each procedure with ease.

Sherlock returned from the kitchen, tea in hand, only to find John sitting upright in his chair. His gaze wasn't vacant, precisely, it was more like it was focused on something that the detective couldn't see. He stood there looking at John for a few long moments, giving a start when the doctor's hands started moving. It was as if John were sorting through a bag and coming up with something cupped in his hands. The doctor repeated the actions over and over. He must have found his way into Sherlock's Mind Palace after all.

Biting his lip, Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want to disturb John who appeared truly calm for the first time since this whole ordeal had began. He opted to set the tea on the table within easy reach in case John wanted it.

Sitting down in his chair, Sherlock let himself give way to the shakes. He brought his hands up to cover his face and struggled to breathe against the constriction in his chest. A mobile buzzed insistently on the table by John's chair. Sherlock ignored it. A few minutes later, another phone buzzed on the desk. The detective ignored it too. Finally, the first phone began ringing. Sherlock lunged across the room trying to get to it before it disturbed John, but the doctor returned to the here and now and snapped it up before the detective could reach it.

John had glanced at the ID, so he answered with, "Now's really not a good time Greg." There was a pause at the other end of the line, no doubt at being called Greg by 'Sherlock'.

"Look, I don't care if you're in the middle of defusing a bomb, I need you and I need you now. Two little girls have been kidnapped. There have been no ransom demands, just..." Here, Lestrade's voice broke. "We've received disturbing photos of what's being done to them. Now get your arse in here and help me get the bastard."

"Oh, bloody buggaring fuck." John's hand holding the phone fell limp, the mobile falling to the floor.

Greg's voice rang tinny in the air, "Sherlock! What the hell? Sherlock!"

The detective bent and retrieved the phone, trying to think what John would do. He would smooth things over, that was John's job. "Le..." He paused. **John never called the DI by his family name. What was his first name again? Gary, Geoff, Gavin. How was he supposed to remember? John would remember. Greg! That was it.** "Greg, Sherlock's not feeling well at the moment. Sorry. Whatever you have will have to wait."

Sherlock got a double earful as both Lestrade and John barked out, "No!" simultaneously.

The detective looked at John in disbelief. A low grade anger was building inside of him. What did John expect them to do? Sherlock's mind was moving at a glacial pace and John... The doctor had already experienced one meltdown in the safety of the flat. Sherlock snapped, "Don't be an idiot, John!"

The doctor wrenched the phone from Sherlock's hand and held it to his ear. "Text me the address and the details of the case. We'll be there within 45 minutes." Pressing 'end', John rang off.

Sherlock stepped into John's space, glaring at the taller man. "We can't do this. What were you thinking?! You get the use of an exemplary mind, and you don't bother to use it."

"You need to calm down," the doctor advised. He felt his own anger growing, but it was a cold thing. The mobile pinged several times. Looking down, he noted that some of the messages had attachments. Opening one, he grimaced. It was a disturbing picture of one of the missing girls. He thrust the phone in Sherlock's face, forcing him to look at the image. "That's why we're going. Two missing girls."

The detective couldn't take his eyes from the photo. Seeing it was doing strange things to him. It was affecting him viscerally. It finally became too much and he bent double, his stomach heaving.

John placed a hand on his back. "Sherlock?"

"God, John. Is this how you always feel?" The detective didn't wait for an answer. "My skin is crawling, John. Can you see it? You should be able to see it. I want to find the bastard and hurt him." He looked up into John's eyes. "Let me hurt him."

The doctor was calm with his response. "Yes, that's how these things make me feel. It's worse when you're the one in danger or being hurt."

"It's like I'm a live wire. I need to do something." Sherlock reached out for John's hand. "I do care, John, I've always cared, but I always controlled it before. How do you cope with this."

John barked a harsh laugh. "I don't. Nightmares, remember?" Knowing that wasn't at all helpful, he added, "I concentrate on breathing. I focus on keeping your arse alive and I think about the consequences if we don't do our job. Sometimes I just think about the next step and what needs to be done. Can you do that for those girls?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

They were a few blocks away from the crime scene. Lights, sounds and smells seemed to bombard the cab from every side. John had spent most of the cab ride with his eyes closed and concentrating on breathing in an effort to reduce the external stimulus he took in. Still, he felt overwhelmed by sensation. To help keep him calm, Sherlock had taken his hand. He didn't hold it with light touch, he knew how disturbing that could be, but gripped it firmly. There was nothing romantic about it. The detective was simply providing a physical anchor for John to hold onto as his mother and, yes, his brother had done for him so many times in years past.

As they road, the detective held his phone one handed and read through the details of the case. He also scrolled through every photo the DI had provided, but he simply couldn't see a pattern. Nothing struck him as obvious. He glanced over at John. There was nothing for it. He'd have to intrude upon his friend and ask for his help. "If you feel up to it, would you look over what Lestrade sent us? Especially the photos? Describe what you see?" Sherlock held his breath, waiting for his friend's response. He released it when the doctor took the phone in his large, pale hands.

John read over the notes twice, then looked at the photographs with trepidation. Fortunately, these photos were of the crime scene, not the brutalised girls. He tried to think of the things that his friend routinely looked for - unusual things, items out of place, items that didn't fit. There was no blood, no sign of struggle. "The window, look at it. It's been painted over so many times, I doubt it can be opened." He looked a bit longer. "And where are their plushies? Girls that age would most likely still sleep with dolls or stuffed toys."

Taking the phone, Sherlock looked at the photo and was annoyed that he had missed two things so very obvious, no, he was angry with himself for it. Furious.

The doctor frowned, then started to say something. "If the kidnapper acted alone..." John shook his head full of dark curls. "Nevermind." He wasn't Sherlock, what he was thinking likely didn't matter.

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "What?"

"I could see a kidnapper subduing one child, keeping her quiet, but two? These girls have a reputation for being hard to control. Even if he had threatened to hurt one to control the other..."

"It wouldn't have worked. At least one of them would have screamed and fought." The detective steepled short fingers under his chin. "So it was either someone they trusted or were familiar enough with to have allowed the kidnapper to drug them."

John sighed. "Or both. And he let them take their toys."

"To keep them calm." Sherlock rubbed his temples, fighting down another surge of anger that the girls had most likely been betrayed by someone they knew - a family member or caregiver. He had to think of a way to help them work together once they arrived at the crime scene. "You're seeing things that I miss," he said with frustration.

"Yeah. It's these hyper senses of yours."

"When we get there, play like you're me. Look around at everything. Point out what you see. Ask me what I make of it. We'll talk the case through like we always do. Demand eveyone leave but Lestrade, they'll expect it." He tried to think what else they should do. We'll arrive at a conclusion, then you can explain it to him. If he thinks anything's odd, I'll tell him you have a migraine."

John managed a thin smile. "I think I do. I can't quit thinking and the city is too... much... of everything." There was a pause. "I thought you weren't thinking too well yourself in my slow little brain."

"It's a servicable brain. God, not like Anderson's. I could have done worse." Sherlock watched at the cab pulled up to the kerb. "Alright. Let's go. If it gets to be too much, tell me." As they climbed ftom the cab, he remembered one last thing. "Don't forget to hold the crime tape for me."


	6. Chapter 6

Greg breathed a sigh of relief when he saw 'Sherlock' and 'John' approaching. As he got a better look at them, however, he became concerned for his friends. 'Sherlock' looked even paler than normal and his face looked drawn. There were lines of stress at the corners of the taller man's eyes that Lestrade had never seen there before. 'John' didn't look much better. He looked as though he had been hit be a lorry but hadn't realised it yet. "You weren't joking, John. He looks like shit. Hell, so do you."

'John' glared at the DI, obviously in an unusually bad mood. "Let's get this over with, Lestrade." He placed his hand at 'Sherlock's' waist and guided him towards the doorway where Greg stood.

The DI raised an eyebrow at 'John' calling him by his family name and stood out of the way so the two men could pass. 'Sherlock' walked into the room with 'John' by his side. They kept their heads close together, the taller man pointing to different things and the shorter man nodding. More than once, 'Sherlock' stopped where he was and grabbed his curls, pulling, until 'John' gently extricated them.

Greg couldn't stand it any longer. "John, a word."

'Sherlock' turned to look at Lestrade, his mouth opening as if to speak, but he closed it and caught his friend's attention, pointing to the DI. 'John' gave a start, scowled, then walked over to talk to him.

"What is it, Les... Greg?" 'John' asked in a clipped manner.

The DI shook his head. "What is it? You called me Lestrade earlier. You almost did it again just now and Sherlock... he looks like he's coming apart at the seams. So, you tell me, what's going on?"

The shorter man gave Greg a defiant look. It was very un-John like. "It's simple enough, even you should be able to see it. He has a migraine. I've had to deal with it so I'm... a bit out of sorts. Now if you want this case solved..." 'John' stalked back to his friend's side and rested a calming hand at the small of his back. They resumed their discussion and circuit of the room.

Greg reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his mobile. Something was very, very wrong. He was tempted to call Mycroft Holmes right that moment, but hesitated. If he did, his friends might pull a runner together. He decided it would be best to wait and call the instant they left the crime scene.

The two men completed their discussion and approached the DI. "Find the uncle," 'Sherlock' said, the same strain that was evident in his features, audible in his voice. "He's angry to have been cut from his parents' will and seeks to get his share through ransom. The girls would have trusted him and gone with him willingly."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. The uncle had seemed so distraught over the missing girls and what had been done to them. "Sometimes I hate this job."

'Sherlock' gave him a sympathetic look. "Yeah. Me too." He gave himself a shake. "Anyway. The girls are likely being kept in the uncle's basement, moved there after any routine preliminary police search. He's not very bright and doesn't expect suspicion to fall on him."

"I need you to walk me through it," Greg insisted.

'Sherlock' grabbed at his head as if in pain.

"Later." 'John's' tone allowed no argument. "I need to get him back to the flat and into a dark room. "You have what you need to find the girls. He can take you through it later."

The DI nodded. "Right. Call me as soon as he's feeling better." He watched the two men go, then pulled out his phone and dialled Mycroft. The moment the government official answered, Greg spoke, "Mycroft, something's wrong with your brother. And John. Something's very wrong." There was a pause. "What do you mean you know?" Another pause. "Then what the bloody hell are you doing about it?" Pause. "That's not good enough!" His connection went dead and he was left staring at his phone.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft dropped his head into his hands. He couldn't do this, leave his brother and John to their own devices. He didn't know why they had left the shelter of the flat, but he should have expected nothing different from them. The government official ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He had to do something. Lestrade, the DI that Sherlock worked with so often, knew something was wrong. Mycroft picked up his phone and asked Anthea to join him.

"Sir?" the brunette asked as she entered his office.

"Prepare a car. We'll be picking up my brother and Doctor Watson. Also arrange for an escort. Six of my most trusted and best men. We're going to Baskerville. Every precaution must be taken to ensure they don't try to keep my brother." Or John Watson, he added mentally. "We leave within the hour."

* * *

John was completely exhausted from coping with the sensory input that had assaulted him on the way back to the flat from the crime scene. He had made it halfway up the stairs, when it simply became to much for him. He started shaking violently.

Unsure what to do, Sherlock moved up to stand beside him on the stairs. Hesitantly, he embraced the taller man, keeping his hold firm. He didn't think it would have worked on him as a child, but this was John. Maybe... The doctor's tremors subsided slowly and he extricated himself from Sherlock's embrace.

"I'm okay, now. Sorry." John finished climbing the stairs and sat on the sofa, letting his head hang down.

Sherlock went into the kitchen and put the kettle on because that was what his friend did for him. As he waited for the water to boil, he walked over to the kitchen table and picked up his lab book. Flipping through it, he went to where the entry for the disastrous experiment started and tried to make sense of it. He read and reread until the kettle clicked off, then as the tea steeped. Tucking it under his arm, he carried two mugs of tea back to the living room and set them on the coffee table before sitting next to John on the sofa.

"Sherlock..."

"Mm."

"Would you do that thing again? It helps, better than the blanket." John looked down and away as if ashamed to be asking.

The detective, though his current mind operated at a slower pace, quickly deduced what his friend needed. He tossed the lab book down on the coffee table, he couldn't make sense of it anyway, and pulled John to him. He held him tightly and willed all of this to go away, as irrational as that was. If only they could identify where in the experiment things had gone wrong. If only he had his Mind Palace and its knowledge. If only...

Sherlock's frustration, normally a quiet thing that took time to rise to a boil, exploded. He lashed out with his foot and kicked the coffee table over, spilling the tea and sending his lab book flying.

John gave a start.

"Sorry." The detective held him tighter. "I'm just a bit..."

"Yeah." John chuckled darkly. "Right about now is when I normally take one of my famous walks."

Without thinking, Sherlock placed a kiss to the centre of the doctor's forehead. "I can't do that. Not knowing this is all new to you, how you're feeling."

"It's as new to you as..." John cocked his head. "Someone's coming."

Sherlock strained to hear something, but it was a few more moments before he heard his brother's familiar tread on the stairs. "Mycroft."

Neither man moved as the door opened and the government official entered the flat. He didn't comment on their positions, simply looked at them and said, "I was wrong. We're going to Baskerville."


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft admitting to being wrong about anything would normally be cause for celebration and caustic remarks on Sherlock's part, but at the moment he was too frustrated and his control over his current emotions too tenuous. The detective leapt to his feet and approached his brother. "It took you long enough," he hissed, fists clenched.

"Sherlock, please," John begged, his voice low and rumbling. "Now isn't the time."

Mycroft actually swallowed visibly in relief. Seeing such volatile, unbridled anger aimed at him from 'John's' face was unnerving. Intellectually, he knew it was Sherlock, but that thought was even more unsettling. He forced himself to present a calm facade.

"Considering the circumstances, I've had Anthea purchase clothing and other necessities for duration, there's no need for either of you to pack you bags. However..." He took out his mobile and moved to the kitchen where he started taking photos of the experiment setup from every angle conceivable. When he was done, Mycroft glanced over the surface of the table. "Where is your lab book?"

Sherlock went over to the wreckage he had left of the coffee table and picked up the notebook. Thankfully it had escaped damage. He looked at it, smoothing down a bent corner on the first page of his notes. He turned and handed it reluctantly to his brother, then, looking up into Mycroft's eyes, he said some of the hardest words he had ever had to say, "I don't understand what I was trying to do." Startled, he looked around when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. John had stood at some point and was trying to reassure him, for which Sherlock was oddly thankful.

Mycroft looked at the notebook seriously. "Then we shall find out. Gentlemen." He stepped aside and gestured for the other two men to precede him from the room.

* * *

After several minutes of reading, Mycroft closed Sherlock's lab book and closed his eyes. He didn't say anything for several long seconds, finally he looked at his brother, sitting across from him, and said, "Sherlock, you can't really have expected your experiment to work. In order to experiment at the quantum level, you would need the resources of CERN, not your kitchen."

Sherlock, all 5'6" of him, bristled. "I got a result."

"Some result," John rumbled, with a hint of bite. "I would much have preferred no result, you git."

There wasn't much the detective could say to that. He bit his lip and looked out the car window, feeling more than a bit guilty for getting them into this situation.

John, who was sitting as close to Sherlock, nudged his friend. He needed the grounding effect of the detective's arm around his shoulders. Sherlock lifted his arm and put it around him without further prompting. As soon as the doctor felt more stable, he addressed Mycroft. "What's wrong with Baskerville? I mean, I don't look forward to going back to that place, but you've brought an entourage with us."

"Yes, what are you afraid of, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked his brother.

The elder Holmes decided to be frank. "I'm afraid of losing you."

John and Sherlock exchanged incredulous looks.

"What do you mean?" the detective asked. "What's the danger?"

Mycroft sighed. "There's a program that forcefully 'recruits' volunteers of a particular nature: highly intelligent, sociopathic individuals. They..."

John cut him off. "He's not a sociopath."

"I know that, John," Mycroft soothed. "But the people who run this particular program are not convinced. My people ran interference the last time the two of you were here. Now, though... Can you imagine any of the researchers at Baskerville wanting to let the two of you go now that they have proof personality transference is possible? You will be the perfect lab rats to them. I won't let them keep either of you."

Mycroft's voice was fierce and determined at the last, unlike anything John had ever heard before. Sherlock had heard it the day he had been checked into rehab against his will. He knew what it meant: God help anyone who got in the way of the British Government.


	9. Chapter 9

They had been travelling for what seemed to be forever in relative silence. As they travelled, John thought about Sherlock's experiment. He closed his eyes and pictured the mess that had been on the table. The image he conjured was blurry and incomplete at best. He wondered what it would look like from inside his friend's Mind Palace. He tried picturing something more familiar, the skull on the mantle. It appeared in full and bright detail. The doctor smiled and reached out, touching it. He touched it! John gasped and looked around the room. Everything seemed so clear and... orderly. He walked around 221B, taking everthing in. Finally, he turned and looked at the table. He saw Sherlock's experiment clearly, though he still didn't understand it. At least he could see it. That would surely be helpful. John moved closer to the table...

"John. John!" Mycroft called out his name.

The doctor blinked and came back to the real world. "That was... I was in it."

Sherlock looked up at his friend through blond lashes. "In what?"

"Brother mine, I realise you've never seen it from the outside and I understand that you are... compromised right now. But you should still be able to apply deductive reasoning to the situation."

The detective cocked his head and regarded John. His friend's eyes had been focused on something unseen and his hands had been moving oddly. Oh! "You found your way into my Mind Palace."

"A fact I believe should be kept between the three of us. Let's keep the researchers' motivations to keep you both to a minimum. Anything John can tell us, we'll say we gleaned from the journal and Sherlock's own memories of events." Mycroft's words were difficult to argue with as neither John nor Sherlock had any desire to become permanent residents of Baskerville.

Sherlock took John's larger hand in his own. "What do you remember?"

As John closed his eyes and resubmerged himself into the Mind Palace, he began to describe what he saw on the table in detail. Mycroft made notes on a clean page in his brother's lab book, catching every detail the doctor described.

"And that's it," John finished, squeezing Sherlock's hand. He rested his curly head against the back of the car seat and laughed a short, brittle laugh. "It was the skull that led me into your Mind Palace, of all things." He turned his head and smiled at his friend. "Of all things, it was the bloody skull." He started giggling and it wasn't long before the detective joined in.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, this is no laughing matter. We need to discuss how we shall comport ourselves once we arrive at the facility." Much to his annoyance, this only set the other two men to laughing all the harder at his stiff delivery. "Sherlock! John! Enough! Do I need to remind you of the gravity of the situation?"

"No, no," John managed to get himself under control first. "Sorry."

"Mm. Yes," the elder Holmes agreed. "When we arrive, they will do everything in their power to separate us. We will not allow that to happen. My men are under the same instructions and they answer only to me."

That sobered both men quickly enough.

"I'd like to see them try to separate me from John," Sherlock growled fiercely. "I'll break something if they do, or someone." He meant every word of it. His protective streak for his friend had done nothing if not grown and become more fierce since he had found himself in his friend's body. He didn't care. He meant what he had said.

John's grip on Sherlock's hand became vice-like. "It won't happen. We won't let it." He looked at his friend with determination. He felt less overwhelmed and better equipped to cope with things in this car. The traveller's compartment was incredibly quiet and he wasn't being bombarded by as much sensory input, but what would happen when they reached their destination?

The detective's seemed to know what he was thinking. He held up their clasped hands between them. "I won't let go, no matter what. I'll be there, whatever you need."

The car slowed as they pulled up outside the gates of Baskerville. The game was on whether they wanted it to be or not.


	10. Chapter 10

The car pulled up outside the same entrance John remembered from their last visit to Baskerville. This time there was a small entourage of five people waiting to greet them. None of them were Major Barrymore.

Sherlock met his friend's eyes, but his words were directed at Mycroft. "Major Barrymore?"

"Was replaced shortly after your visit here," Mycroft confirmed his brother's suspicions. "He couldn't be trusted to further the government's interests... responsibly."

"You couldn't control him, you mean," the younger Holmes said sarcastically.

Mycroft was unperturbed at the words directed at him from the blond. "Just so."

The driver of the car stepped out and opened the door for them. Mycroft stepped out first, followed by Sherlock and John.

A sharp dressed man in uniform stepped forward. "Mr. Holmes, sir. I'm Major Grisham."

The government official nodded coolly, aware of their escort exiting their own vehicle. "Major. Thank you for accommodating my request on such short notice." He looked around at the other four individuals. "I think we should move inside before conducting introductions."

Sherlock observed one of the men, a stock brunette, standing behind the major. The man was staring at John with an almost hungry expression. Even with his slower than normal thought processes, the detective quickly deduced that he was one of the men Mycroft had spoken of in the car. He bared his teeth, almost growling at the man, but a quick squeeze from John's bigger hand stopped him.

The doctor only wanted to get inside. The sun was too bright, the wind too cold and the faces and demeanour of the little group of scientists were providing too much visual input for him to handle. He closed his eyes briefly and summoned up the comfort of the flat. It was getting easier to find his way into Sherlock's Mind Palace, a fact for which he was grateful as it cut out much of the external stimuli. It didn't last long. He felt Sherlock tug his hand and he had to open his eyes to follow the others inside.

As the door to the facility closed behind the group, Mycroft addressed Major Grisham. "As I indicated, this is an issue of the highest sensitivity. Only those with a need to know need continue to the area you've set aside."

The major gave a little bow to indicate his understanding. "Then I'll leave you in the hands of Doctor Blankenship." He gestured towards a tallish blond man. "He was selected as the lead for your team."

Sherlock allowed himself a thin smile. Obviously this major had been hand picked by Mycroft himself. There was no danger from that front. His eyes drifted to the brunette he had marked outside. That man was a different matter.

"Doctor Blankenship," Mycroft acknowledged without breaking stride. "Your reputation precedes you." He nodded to the major as he peeled off from the group. "You're work has proved promising on several fronts."

The idle chatter continued as they made their way through the labyrinthine halls and down several levels. It was obvious the other members of the team were dying of curiosity, but they had been well trained and kept it in check. That lasted until they entered a conference room, their guards waiting outside the locked door.

Mycroft waited until everone had taken a seat except himself. "We'll continue introductions in a few minutes, but first, I wish to tell you why you are here. You are about to be faced with a tired trope of both science fiction and comedy, but I assure you, this is no misguided attempt at humour. The matter at hand is serious and will be treated with the utmost care. These two gentlemen," he indicated both John and Sherlock, "have, hm, had their personalities and the majority of their memories swapped across bodies. It will-"

The room erupted into chatter amongst the four men. There were several exclamations of 'impossible' and 'absurd' as they gesticulated wildly.

Mycroft's fist impacted the table, drawing all eyes to him. "No more so than glowing rabbits and extra human strength. Collect yourself, gentlmen! This is real and you have been brought together to reverse the process." He took a deep breath, then tossed Sherlock's notebook on the table. "The experiment outlined in this notebook was interrupted. We believe we know when, but we don't understand the results. That's where you come in, the psychiatrists and the physicists. Figure it out." He paused. "One more thing before the introductions commence, these two gentlemen will be leaving this facility with me in a few days. Any effort to prevent that will be met with the harshest force. Do we understand each other?" He met each man's eye, waiting for an acknowledgement. When he had got it he smiled. "Now, let's get on with the introductions, shall we?"


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft had ensured that the three of them weren't separated, well, to an extent. They were in a large room. In the centre, the government official worked with the two physicists as they poured over Sherlock's lab book. Their discussion revolved around whether it would be best to use the makeshift materials that the detective had used in his original experiment or if it would be better to use state of the art components. Sherlock would definitely have an opinion if he hadn't been otherwise occupied.

In a corner of the room, one of the team leaders, Doctor Blankenship led a team of technicians in conducting a full physical. It was pointless as far as the problem at hand was concerned. People thought Sherlock didn't have a verbal filter and, most of the time, he only managed to suppress about ten percent of the things he knew he shouldn't say. Right now, it seemed easier somehow to keep his mouth shut. It obviously had something to do with being in John's body and using John's brain - better impulse control. Still he had had about all the pointless poking and prodding he could stand.

Sherlock looked across the room to where John was undergoing the same examination, only his team was led by the brunette doctor, Doctor Grisham. One glance told him his friend was well on his way to snapping. The detective leapt from the examination table, ignoring the shocked cries of the team working on him. He strode purposely across the room and glared at John's team. "Back away," he stated with unacustomed heat in his voice. He could feel anger about to burst into flames, an uncomfortable feeling at best. Doctor Grisham gave him what was surely meant to be a soothing smile, but it only angered Sherlock all the more. "You and your team will give me and Doctor Watson some privacy immediately or I won't be responsible for my actions." One of the guards Mycroft had brought with them made a move in the group's direction, his cold gaze levelled not at Sherlock, but at Doctor Grisham.

"Of course," Doctor Grisham said, laying his medical instrument to the side. He spoke to his team. "Let's give these gentlemen some time to talk." As he and the group walked away, the guard resumed his original position by the door.

Slowly, so that John had the chance to object, Sherlock grasped his hand. "You looked like you needed a break."

The doctor gave him a shaky smile. "It was getting a bit... overwhelming. They're certainly eager."

"They're documenting everthing for after Mycroft whisks us away from them," the detective said, annoyance filling his voice. He looked around to be sure he wouldn't be overheard. "When it gets to be too much, just slip away to my Mind Palace. You can do that now you've found your way in."

John shook his head. "It's pointless. They'll just 'Doctor Watson' me this and 'Doctor Watson' me that, wanting me to do things."

"Ignore them. That's what I always do." Sherlock squeezed John's hand. He felt the urge to bring it to his lips and kiss it, but he fought it off. It was more difficult to do in John's body than in his own.

"That works for you, does it?" The doctor squeezed his hand back. He sighed. "Alright. I'll give it a go." He closed his eyes and let himself find his way to the flat. Slipping into Sherlock's Mind Palace had become almost second nature to him now. John didn't notice when his friend released his hand a few minutes later and walked away.

When other hands resumed their examination, John ignored them. He started wandering his way around Sherlock's Mind Palace. When he exited the front door to 221, he entered a long corridor. Along it were various doors. The doctor didn't open them, he felt as though that would be intruding on his friend's private memories. He didn't know if the rooms held only simple facts or things much closer to Sherlock's heart.

John lost track of time as he wandered. He could still feel his body being manipulated and he could hear voices, but it was all as if it was from a distance. He took another random turn down a corridor and stopped in his tracks. There was a door ahead that called to him. From around it came a golden light. The doctor tried turning away from the door, but found that, without concious movement on his part, he was stood in front of it, his hand on the door knob. John took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping inside. What he saw made him stagger. Every inch of every wall was covered in photos of him. He walked over to the nearest wall and found a photo of himself from what had to be their first meeting. He was leaning on his cane and looking frankly gobsmacked. As he walked around the room, the photos catalogued their lives together at 221B and whilst on cases. He turned from the walls and found a musical manuscript laying on a nearby table. Picking it up, he read the title, For John. He couldn't make sense of what he was seeing. Did Sherlock have a room like this for everyone he knew? Then the doctor's eyes fell on a sculpture. As he approached it he realised it was actually a hologram. It portrayed Sherlock, his hands cupping the back of John's head as he kissed him passionately. The doctor staggered back, disbelieving. Sherlock had feelings for him. Feelings that John fully reciprocated. It was difficult to fathom, but the holographic sculpture left no doubt.

"Doctor Watson? Doctor Watson!" Hands shook him insistently until he emerged, unwilling, from the Mind Palace.

"Um... Yes," John said, distracted.

Doctor Grisham gave him an odd look. "It's time for your MRI."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock frowned deeply at the mention of an MRI being performed on John. Of course they would want an MRI on both himself and his friend, but that implied separating them and he wasn't going to stand for that. "Mycroft," he called loudly over his shoulder, "you'll want to join us for this. We're going with John for his MRI." He glared at the doctor and the technicians with equal force.

"That will be impossible," Doctor Grisham said with a flat smile. "No one can be in the room with him during the procedure."

Mycroft, who had crossed the room, placed a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm. He could see his brother's temper rusing. "True, but we will be in the control room." The smile he gave Doctor Grisham was cold and dangerous. It clearly dared the man to argue differently. If Grisham did, he would be removed from the case.

Doctor Grisham swallowed audibly and nodded. He knew better than to argue with Mycroft, though he didn't really know who he was beyond Sherlock's very protective, very powerful brother. "That can certainly be arranged, though it will be crowded." He turned to John. "Doctor Watson, you know this is a simple enough procedure. Perhaps you can convince your frie-"

John cut him off quickly. "They observe or it doesn't happen." He reached for Sherlock's smaller hand and grasped it like a lifeline. "I assume that was clear enough?" He could be as bull headed as any Holmes and he hadn't forgot Mycroft's admonition to stay together at all times. Frankly, Baskerville still gave him the creeps.

"Ahem, well, yes then. If you will all come with me, we'll get this done as quickly as possible." Doctor Grisham was clearly discomfited, but was trying to hide it.

"For the sake of time, wouldn't it be expedient to perform my MRI as soon as you complete the one on Doctor Watson," Sherlock suggested. "You won't have to drag us all to the MRI suite again." He smiled condescendingly at Grisham. "Because that's exactly what will happen if you don't."

Doctor Blankenship had joined the small group out of curiosity. "That sounds like an excellent idea," he agreed, oblivious to Doctor Grisham's irritation with the whole thing. "It will be exciting to compare Mr. Holmes' results with his old MRI scans, then compare Doctor Watson's to those same scans. It will be fascinating to see which ones provide the best match."

John looked at his friend. "You've had an MRI before?" he asked. "Why?"

"As part of a study." The detective shrugged it off. "I imagine it was to soothe ruffled feathers here, based on what Mycroft said."

"Entirely correct," the government official confirmed. "I did everything I could to keep them satisfied without jeopardising Sherlock."

They entered the MRI suite and the technicians wasted no time getting John ready. Just before the rest of them had to move to the control room, Sherlock moved to John's side. He bent low and whispered, "Remember the Mind Palace. It's how I get through these ghastly procedures."

The doctor snagged his hand again. "We need to talk," he said urgently. "I found a room. It was full of stuff about me. I..."

"We really must get started," Doctor Grisham insisted. "Mr. Holmes, if you'll join us." He looked and sounded even more irritated than before.

Sherlock had gone pale, almost as pale as his own body was usually. He dropped John's hand and stepped away fast, not seeing the doctor's stricken look. "Of course." The detective was in a panic. He hadn't realised that John had gained full access to his Mind Palace. He felt weak in the knees, panicked, nauseated even. He half staggered to keep up with the others as they made their way to the control room. How much time had John spent in that room? How much had he seen? He leaned against the wall and concentrated on not hyperventilating. Mycroft, of course, noticed.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" the government official asked with concern. "Did John say something? Do you feel alright?" He moved closer and held out an arm as if to catch him should he fall.

The detective waved him off. He couldn't tell Mycroft, of all people, what had happened. His brother would scoff at his sentimentality and tell him it was his own fault for allowing it in the first place. Mycroft would sneer at the idea of a room in Sherlock's Mind Palace dedicated to the doctor. What must John, definitely not gay John think of him. His friend must be disgusted by him. The doctor was probably only putting up with him because of their current predicament. As soon as they were back in their own bodies and safely away from Baskerville, the doctor would leave and never look back.

Sherlock pushed away from the wall and pretended to be interested in the procedure. Mycroft gave him one last sidelong look, then he too turned his gaze on the computer that was processing the imaging information. The detective bided his time, letting everyone become engrossed in what was happening, then he quietly slipped from the room. He had to get away from it all. Away from the madness of what he had done to them, from the fallout of what John now knew to be the truth. He knew he couldn't hide forever, but he needed time to come to terms with the travesty he had made of his own life.


	13. Chapter 13

When Sherlock burst out into the hall, he was confronted by Mycroft's hand picked security detail. How inconvenient and infuriating. He ground his teeth as one of the men stepped forward and addressed him.

"Mr. Holmes, can I help you?", the guard asked, stepping forward. He was obviously the leader of the team.

"Yes, you can get out of my way," Sherlock said gruffly as he tried to shoulder his way around the man.

The guard didn't offer to let him pass and firmly stood his ground. He placed a hand on Sherlock's arm. "I'm sorry, sir, but your brother's orders are clear. All of you are to be kept together or given an escort at all times." The guard looked determined, unlikely to back down. Just the type of minion Mycroft surrounded himself with at all times.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "Fine." He gesticulated towards the other men in the security detail. "Send one of them to babysit me, then we can all be happy." He didn't care, as long as he could put space between himself and John, between himself and his brother.

The guard, looking relieved that the disagreement had been settled so easily waved at one of the other men. "Wilkinson, you're with Mr. Holmes." He stepped back to let Sherlock pass.

The detective walked through the guards, not caring if Wilkinson followed him or not. His thoughts were with John and the implications of his friend finding the room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. Why had he had to find that room, the room that was dedicated to the doctor! He had never dreamt that John would venture there. At the mere thought of it, Sherlock felt almost physically ill, his stomach a tight fist of knots. He needed to fix this, but it was impossible. Impossible!

Sherlock wandered back to the main room where most of the testing had been performed. He paced the room, his hands folded beneath his chin. He couldn't stop moving, no matter how hard he tried. The fact Wilkinson trailed him everywhere he went quickly became annoying. The detective rounded on him. "For heaven's sake. I'm not going anywhere. Find a place to perch and stay there! Or is that too simple a concept for your limited mind?" He stood there, his chest heaving with the violence of his outburst. Was it too much to ask to be given some space?

Wilkinson, used to dealing with difficult Holmeses, shrugged and went to take a seat by the door through which they had entered. He could keep an eye on his charge no matter where the detective went in the room.

After that, Sherlock went back to ignoring him and worrying about things he couldn't figure out how to change.

Several minutes later, and several circuits of the room later, Doctor Grisham joined the two men. "Sherlock, is everything alright?" he asked with false concern. He leaned up against the door frame next to the guard, his arms crossed.

"Nothing that's any of your business," the detective barked at the man he deeply distrusted, his lip curling. "Shouldn't you be with the others, with John? You're assigned to him, after all."

Grisham pushed himself away from the door frame and walked casually towards Sherlock, but not before unobtrusively pushing a button next to the door. "The control room was a bit crowded for my tastes. I don't mind waiting for the complete results. Besides, I was worried about you. I saw that you were distressed." He neared the detective, his hands shoved in his pockets. Grisham's false concern grated on Sherlock's already frayed nerves.

"As if you care about my distress," Sherlock snarled and turned his back on Grisham. He couldn't stand the sight of the man. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to centre himself. The moment he felt a prick at his neck, he realised his mistake. He whirled around, calling out to Wilkinson, but he could see that the guard had been similarly drugged, probably when Grisham had paused by him. Stumbling backwards, the detective looked around for anything that could be used as a weapon, but the drug was already taking effect. He shuffled back some more, then fell to his knees. He didn't stay upright for long, collapsing to the floor and rolling onto his side. His vision went blurry, but it didn't go dark. "Mycroft..." he managed to get out.

Grisham crouched down beside him. "I've blocked the entrace to this part of the complex. I would have preferred to have taken Doctor Watson with that superior brain of yours, but I can't afford to be choosy. You practically offered yourself up to me, so how could I resist?" Grisham gave him a wicked smile.

Working fast, Grisham rolled out a gurney. It took effort, but he heaved Sherlock onto it. He gathered the detective's notebook and the other papers and placed them on Sherlock's chest, then, covering him with a sheet, he rolled him not to the main entrance of the lab, but to the freight lift. He calculated that he had approximately 20 minutes to abscond with his lab subject and the other materials. Once beyond the fences of Baskerville, his contacts would be waiting to carry him away. All he had to do was reach them before being intercepted.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft looked up to say something to his brother only to find Sherlock missing. Why had he taken his eyes off of him even for a moment? His heart leapt into his throat, though it didn't show from the outside, not yet. When he noticed that Doctor Grisham was missing as well, that changed. There was something off about Grisham - he had been a member of the team that had wanted to study Sherlock. He rushed to the door of the control room and slammed it open only to find the security detail in place, sans one member. "Where has Sherlock gone?" he barked.

The guard in charge stepped forward, flinching. "He was agitated, sir, seemed to need some space. Wilkinson went with him back to the main lab." He gestured in that direction with his gun.

At that, Mycroft's face darkened and he began running back towards the main lab. He called back over his shoulder. "Two of you stay with Doctor Watson. The rest of you with me." He ran faster than he had in years. When he reached the door to the main lab, it wouldn't open. Mycroft swore. He tried his access badge, but it was rejected, this particular entrance having been locked down. He pounded on the door with his fist. "Get Doctor Blankenship! He'll know how to get around this." Or so the government official hoped. "Hurry!" Even Mycroft couldn't predict what Grisham would do to his brother.

One of the guards dissapeared back towards the MRI control room, then came running back with Blankenship in tow. John was with them, much to Mycroft's surprise.

The doctor looked angry. "I heard the commotion. Sod the MRI. Where's Sherlock? What's happened to him?" John demanded.

"He disappeared behind this locked door with Grisham. We don't know how long ago and we don't know what Grisham has planned." Mycroft turned to Blankenship. "How do we get in here?"

"This door will stay locked down for quite some time. We have to come in from the outside, which means we have to go around."

Mycroft nodded. "Lead the way. Now!"

They all started running together.

"What are the possibilities?" John asked. "With Grisham, I mean."

Mycroft shook his head as he ran. "He could try to do something to him here or he could try to get him put of Baskerville. The first would be foolish. The second would be nearly impossible. I fear he'll realise that and harm Sherlock." A few more feet down the hall, the government official yelled back to John, "Grisham is obviously unstable I should have seen it before. Now Sherlock's in danger because of me."

"We'll find him, Mycroft, and we'll get him back safe. I promise you." John's determination matched the government official's own. They would find him.

* * *

Sherlock became aware of himself. He was cold and disoriented. It wasn't the familiar feeling of being drugged and trapped in an uncooperative body and with a sluggish mind. This was completely different. The detective felt cast adrift. It was almost like he didn't have a body. He cast about him for something to anchor him down, to warm him and give him a sense of normality. He couldn't find it anywhere close by. It was only in the distance that he felt a welcoming warmth. Sherlock moved towards it like a moth to a flame. As he got closer, the warmth blossomed into glorious heat, glorious golden heat. He drew ever closer until he was pulled in by the flames, his consciousness wrapped up and paradoxically preserved by them. Sherlock felt himself settle into a familiar place that felt like home. He was so tired from the cold and from being cast adrift, that he let the warmth and familiarity lull him to sleep. It wouldn't be until he woke that he would realise he was in his own body, cradled by John's presence, yet unable to communicate.

* * *

John stumbled as he raced along behind the others. He stopped short, leaning hard against the wall. Something had changed. Suddenly he felt like... he couldn't explain how he felt. He felt warm and happy, euphoric, almost. Under the circumstances, that made no sense whatsoever. He pushed away from the wall and rejoined the chase, his momentary lapse going unnoticed by the others. Even as he ran, though, he kept one hand pressed over his heart where the joyful feeling seemed to reside.

* * *

When they reached the outside entrance to the building, there was no need to wonder which direction to go to look for Grisham and Sherlock. They saw Doctor Grisham manhandling the inert form of the detective into the back seat of a car. As the guards ran to intercept Grisham, Mycroft grabbed up a nearby phone and called the guardhouse at the gate to the facility, issuing a complete lock down of the base using pre determined code phrases.

Grisham never made it into the front of his car. Other guards turned at the commotion and assisted Mycroft's men in bringing him down. They were none too gentle about it.

When they were able to finally check on Sherlock however, he was completely unresponsive. "He's been drugged," Doctor Blankenship announced grimly. "Let's get him inside where we can care for him."

Both Mycroft and John hovered as Sherlock was lifted out of the car. "I'll carry him," John volunteered. He knew Doctor Blankenship was right about the drugs, but he also suspected there was more to it, though he couldn't say why. He cradled his friend's body to him protectively and carried him back inside.


	15. Chapter 15

Back in the main lab, everyone but John had gathered around Sherlock in concern. The drug should have worn off by now and he should have been waking up. Doctor Blankenship was more than concerned that he hadn't regained consciousness yet. He and the others were working on him whilst Mycroft stood nearby and watched. They were desperate to find an explanation for his continued non-responsiveness.

For his part John sat off to the side, basking in the strange euphoric feeling that had overtaken him. He couldn't find it in himself to be worried. The constant bombardment of his heightened senses seemed to have been dulled and he didn't feel so overwhelmed by everthing anymore. He felt almost normal again.

The doctor closed his eyes and let himself slip into Sherlock's Mind Palace, wondering if it had changed as well. It had. It felt warmer somehow, more cozy, and standing there beside the fireplace was Sherlock. He looked as if he'd been waiting on John rather impatiently. "Have I made you up or is that really you?" the doctor asked. The detective had to be a figment of his imagination, didn't he? But he knew he wasn't.

"Don't be an idiot, John. Of course it's me." Sherlock moved towards him and grasped him by the elbow. "You've suspected on a subconscious level that I was here for quite some time. I don't know how or why I came to be here, I can only speculate. Perhaps it was the drugs severing an already tenuous connection to your body, perhaps there's a built in time limit and you'll find yourself pulled back to your own body soon. For now, it means we're both here. I need you to stay in here, in my Mind Palace. Perhaps I can leave it and resume control of my body. I'll be able to assist in getting you back home." He could explain his theory to Mycroft and set things in motion.

The doctor blinked, trying to process the rapid fire flow of words. Oh yes, this was definitely Sherlock. Finally, he nodded. "Alright." He shook off Sherlock's hand and grabbed the detective by the arms. "But not until you explain that room." He had to know if it meant what he hoped it did.

"There's no time!" Sherlock complained, trying to pull away. He didn't want to talk about the room and what it meant. He didn't want to drive a wedge between him and John. He had to have time to think of an excuse, to come up with plausible deniability. If he admitted that he loved John...

"We have time," the doctor insisted. "And I think I know, anyway. I just need to hear it from your, erm, lips." Yeah, be that in words or another form of communication.

The detective shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Yes, I know the room, but it's just a repository for memories, nothing more. It doesn't mean... Umph."

John had closed the short distance between them and pressed their lips together in a kiss. In that moment, Sherlock was lost and he kissed back. When they broke apart, the doctor asked, "Is that what it means?"

"I... Yes, John, yes." Sherlock stood there in his Mind Palace with John, completely dazed.

The doctor smiled. "Good. Now go do what you need to do. I'll be waiting here. When I'm me again, we're going to talk and more than talk, if you're amenable."

Sherlock nodded again, coming back to himself. Grinning broadly, he kissed John. "I'll see you soon." With that, he emerged into the real world.

* * *

Sherlock stood and walked over to stand by Mycroft. He cleared his throat. "Brother mine, hello."

The government official's head jerked around. "Sherlock?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, Mycroft. It's me." Sherlock gave a start when Mycroft sprang forward and hugged him. "Myc?"

The government official pulled away, looking embarrassed. He straightened his jacket and tried to regain his normal, cool composure. Looking back over at John's body, he frowned. "If you're back in your body, what has happened to John?"

The detective tapped his temple. "He's still in here. With me." He needed him back in his own body so they could have that talk.

Mycroft's eyebrow rose in surprise. "Interesting. Is he aware?"

"He is. John is currently in my Mind Palace so that I can maintain control of my body." Sherlock tone grew urgent. "Mycroft, I have a couple of theories as to how I got back. The most likely is that the act of drugging John's body severed my attachment to it. I suggest that the doctor use the same drug on this body. It should release its hold on John's awareness and let it return to his own body."

"I don't know..." The government official hesitated. "What if you return to his body instead or worse, what if we lose you." He was loathe to risk it.

"You won't. Besides, things can't continue as they are." Sherlock grasped his brother by the arm. "I know it will work. You have to trust me, Mycroft." He willed Mycroft to agree.

"Alright, baby brother. I'll make it happen." He waded into the group of people surrounding John's body and got their attention. In a manner far calmer than he felt, Mycroft explained what had happened and what was about to happen next. Complete silence filled the room as everyone turned to look at Sherlock.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock stood anxiously by as Doctor Blankenship administered a sedative to the tall, motionless form that had so recently housed John. He didn't know how long it would take before his return to his own body would take place, if it did.

It happened far more quickly that he had expected.

A wave of dizziness swept over Sherlock and everything went white for the briefest of moments, then he opened his eyes to see the ceiling and the figures standing around him. There, in the midst of them was John. The doctor was leaning heavily against the bed, obviously recovering from the abrupt absence of Sherlock inside his head. Their eyes met and they smiled at one another. "John..." The detective reached out to lay his hand across John's where it pressed into the mattress.

"Sherlock, we're back," John said giddily. "You did it, you figured it out." He turned his hand over under the detective's palm and grasped it. "I didn't think... God, but it feels good."

Sherlock sat up and jumped down off the bed. "It does indeed. Mycroft, it's time to get out of here." He started for the door to the lab.

"Wait!" Doctor Blankenship exclaimed. "We don't have all the data we need. We need to run more tests, take samples..."

Mycroft silenced him with a stony glare. "Doctor, I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project, but my brother is right. Doctor Grisham is hardly the only person in this facility who wants to get their hands on my brother."

That silenced Doctor Blankenship effectively on the matter. "I understand." Still, he didn't look happy about the situation.

"I'll contact you at a later date," Mycroft said, then he started after his brother and Doctor Watson. The security detail fell in behind him.

* * *

In the car, John stared at his friend. It was hard to believe that the last few days had happened. He understood the detective better than he had before, which, John thought, was saying quite a lot. The most interesting thing he had learned was what he had found in that special room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. If it wasn't for Mycroft's presence, he'd be asking about it. As it was, he planned to do so once they reached the flat and he wasn't going to let himself be distracted from the issue.

Almost as if he had heard John's thoughts, Sherlock looked around at him, considering. "You're thinking too loudly. Stop it." In fact, he knew what the doctor had to be thinking about and he was uncomfortable with the idea. Sherlock didn't want to address his feelings for John, he wanted them kept hidden. He resolved to ignore any questions that his friend might put forth.

They travelled the rest of the way in silence. Mycroft looked on, sensing that something was hanging in the air between the two men. He observed them both for a bit, seeing how close they sat to one another, how Sherlock's jaw was clenched in tension and John's was set with determination. He smiled to himself. It seemed the good doctor suspected what Mycroft had known for quite some time - Sherlock was in love with him - and in typical fashion, his brother was oblivious to the fact that John returned the sentiment. He didn't think that would last much longer. Good.

* * *

Sherlock climbed the seventeen steps to their flat with trepidation. Once they were inside, he took off his scarf and coat, then placed them on a hook. He could feel John's gaze on him and tried to ignore it. It was useless. Now that they were without the presence of Mycroft, it was only a matter of time until John raised the subject that Sherlock wanted to avoid.

"I'll make us some tea, then we're going to talk," John announced as he headed for the kitchen, "and you are not getting out of this, so don't even try."

By the time John pressed a steaming mug of tea into his hands, Sherlock had resigned himself to the upcoming discussion. He now saw it was unavoidable. Still, he had to try. "I don't see why we have to talk about this," he said petulantly.

"Oh, lets cut through the crap. You care about me," the doctor declared.

Sherlock swallowed. "There's nothing new about that. You're my friend. My only friend. Of course I care about you."

"No. No." John pointed a finger at the detective. "That's not what I mean and you know it. You... You love me." It wasn't a question, but a firm statement of fact.

For a split second, Sherlock considered bolting for the door, but he realised it was far too late for that. "Yes," he said in a voice just above a whisper, "I love you." He looked down at the floor, not wanting to see John's reaction. The floor creaked and the doctor's shadow fell across him.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said gently. He waited until he could see the detective's silver-blue eyes. "You don't have to hide it from me, you berk. I love you too."

The detective's lips parted in a silent "Oh" of understanding. Even as it sank in, John dropped into his lap and pressed their lips together in a long, soft kiss. Sherlock answered it with a kiss of his own. They were together, now, in the way they were meant to be. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.


End file.
